With the Seasons
by midtowngirl89
Summary: Season 5 Lit. One-shot. " 'I don't know why you stay', she breathes, shaking her head.."


**Summary**: Season 5 Lit. One-shot. Rory's made some mistakes, no doubt. Forgiving and forgetting? That's hard to do.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Gilmore Girls or any of the affiliated characters.

**A/N**: A little more background…Rory is the one that has screwed up, Jess is the innocent person. That's about it…I hope you like it.

xxxxx

She slips through the gate in a blurring panic, plasma-style, fumbling with sharp heels and billowy chiffon. She's always been faintly elusive, but his head aches particularly as she jolts him from sleep. Her angles blend and her skin shuffles through the phases: peach, ashen, transparent. He prefers the first, alive, unmarked, rosy to the point of perfection. He settles for the remaining two, colorless, as long as her lips are full and her cheeks hint of cherry.

She shivers in summer heat, burns in the winter, wishes the seasons would stop for her to catch her breath. She's afraid of losing him to the depths of her body, the complexities of her mind. It's so hard being the one on the edge. He has nothing to lose (but her faded touch in the mild evenings). She's easily replaced, he'll say. _You're easily replaced, he says._

He's in control; she tiptoes quietly across the tile floors in ballet slippers, careful not to disturb him. She's careful not to trigger the part of his brain constantly questioning why he stays.

xxxxx

She sees him, always by chance (or when his voice pleads silently from across town); on purpose would imply that this tango the two often perform is _defined_. She hates to put it in words. She appears later in his apartment, reveling in what a secret this is, drunken laughter replacing the sad songs floating from her open car.

"I love you," she's always saying, whispering assurances lighter than spring air. She can't let a quiet moment pass; a moment is enough for him to pack his bags and leave his heavy scent on her cotton pillowcases.

xxxxx

He begs her to stop talking in circles, misusing words stolen from the dictionary and parading them as if they were her own. He lives for the simple words, saying vast amounts with few breaths. She talks him senseless, until her cheeks flush with exhaustion and he closes his eyes in absolute fatigue.

"I don't know why you stay," she breathes, shaking her head slightly and tugging her lacy camisole self-consciously.

"You make it impossible to leave," he answers, shrugging his broad shoulders. The light pools suddenly on her face and she squints through her chestnut hair. She isn't quite sure what to make of this (she's always afraid). Tears escape her eyes and stream subtly down her cheek, mingling with her soft jaw line. "Rory…" She shakily inhales and snakes her slender arms around his waist, clutching the back of his shirt.

xxxxx

Guilt is a dress she wears sparingly, a plunging neckline, sparkling diamonds cascading across her collarbone. Only for special occasions, she reminds herself, when the past seems to become the future and her life is one big flashback (there is no now).

It's a revolting feeling, knowing that _she's _not good enough for _him_. He'll deny it forever, tossing a flickering cigarette stub to the damp pavement and motioning for her to wait. She always insists she's grown up now, over this. This isn't high school. _This is the real world, Jess. _He spits out calmly, evenly, _Don't you think I know that, Rory? _They stand motionless as wasted time falls to their feet. The night begins, slowly at first, then street lamps kick in and shadow the alley. He moves initially, lacing his fingers with hers. She kisses him passionately and says she's sorry through pressed lips.

xxxxx 

It's a progression, this new air she feels lying in his arms under rippling sheets. The final stage plays a symphony in her ear, tangling his voice with satisfying melodies. She sings for him in the morning, hums rather, tracing glowing outlines across his forehead until he succumbs, opening his eyes. She likes to think _this_ has come full circle, restoring the innocence and the longing looks over the diner counter, his lips beseeching hers. The leaves turn (burgundy, auburn, olive), and she believes with each season, the sun rises earlier over the town, their intertwined limbs writhing beneath the radiance.


End file.
